Making Amends
by cmr2014
Summary: You can't sorry it right. You have to *make* it right.
1. Chapter 1

**Making Amends  
**

DISCLAIMER: Trigun and its characters belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.

**- In the Past - **

John Smith was not his real name, but it would suffice in this hard-bitten land. His real name had been left behind in the feud that had claimed the lives of his parents.

Thomas cared for and fed and tethered, camp set up for the night, Smith settled in for a meager dinner cooked on smoldering embers that did not broadcast his presence as a fire would. He did not know when, but eventually he would come to a place where he could lay his hat for good. Until then, he had to make his supplies last. There was no telling how far away the next town would be, and hunting was scarce.

Stomach rumbled, protesting the small amount he fed it. Punched himself in the midsection to make the stomach shut up. There was enough on the campstove for one more serving. Then he would check his guns one last time and go to sleep.

Some people would say this was not the life a sixteen-year-old should live. But those people probably had not been born in a war where your name branded you. For over a year, he had lived on his own, scraping out what he could and looking for a place to live his own life.

For over a year, he had been a man in a boy's body.

A foreign sound broke through the desert night song. He reflexively drew his revolver, thumbing back the hammer. Waited to see what came out of the night. His father's words sounded in his head – _Don't look for trouble, but be ready to give it if it's asked for._

A man's form came crawling out of the darkness. Smith held the gun trained on him, waiting. The blond head raised, showing a face that had not seen water in many days. Blue eyes were still alive, but they asked for help, even if the mouth did not.

Smith lowered the revolver, still keeping it in his hand. Some people might rush to help the man. Some people might rush into a trap.

He motioned with the gun, gesturing at a spot for the man to crawl to. It was close enough to for the man to be warm, far enough the stranger couldn't grab his weapon. "Right there."

The stranger complied, weakly pulling himself to a sitting position in the spot Smith wanted him. Eyes gazed hungrily at Smith's last portion of dinner.

Others might have denied the man needed food. Smith's stomach urged him to do just that. His mother had taught him better.

Keeping his reluctance to himself, Smith one-handedly scooped the portion onto his only plate, setting a hunk of stale bread on it along with a fork. Passed it over with a stretch. Poured a little bit of precious water into a cup and handed that to the man, too – it had been a long time since Smith had had any coffee grounds or tea leaves.

He studied the man as the food was wolfed down. Not a boy – you had to be a man to survive out here – but not much older than Smith himself. Eighteen, twenty at the most. Eyes brightened with the relish of food, but something in them…

The man finished and handed the plate and cup back wordlessly, both of them emptied. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. No thank-you. He gazed at Smith steadily.

That's what was off-setting about the eyes. No emotion there. No humanity that Smith could pick up on. The form was that of a man, but this was something else in a man's body.

The prudent move was to stay ready. But the stranger had made no move to attack. His eyes had not even watched the revolver, not once.

Decision was made. Smith de-cocked and holstered, trusting not so much the stranger as his ability to draw.

They sat like that awhile, watching each other in the dim glow of the embers, neither one speaking.

Finally, the blond man spoke. "You have no more dinner left. While I benefited from your sharing, I doubt I would have done the same. To share needed resources is weak and foolish. Keep that in mind for the future if you want to survive."

Smith echoed his mother's words. "Kindness is not weakness. It takes great strength to be kind in a hard world. Kindness separates us from the animals, who are not kind in hardship."

"Will you turn your back on me, then?"

Smith smiled thinly. "There are many ways to be kind without being stupid."

A thin smile was given in return. "Even so, I bet your kindness has gotten you further with your gun than without."

"True. Possibly further than you have gotten with that gun at your back and no kindness."

Blue eyes blinked. "You noticed."

"I did."

"Yet you didn't demand I give it over. Might that be stupid?"

Another thin smile. "Think of it as kindness. A man should be able to choose whether he dies."

The stranger gave a mirthless laugh. "Indeed, that might be the kindest thing, to choose when and how you die. Not many get that option."

Smith thought back to his parents, gunned down in front of him. His mother reaching for him with her last breath. "True."

Shook his head to clear it. "You can go if you want, or you're welcome to stay the night. But I sleep light." Pointed stare. "Either way, I'm John Smith."

Mouth quirked in amusement. "I'm sure you are."

"It's a name."

"Then John Smith, meet Millions Knives."


	2. Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: Trigun and its characters belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.

**- In the Present - **

**(5 Years After "Under the Sky so Blue")**

Vash's words ran through Knives' head.

"_Amends have to be made if you want us to trust you. If you can't be counted on, you can't be counted in."_

Knives was tired of hating Vash. Five years ago, he had been determined to wipe out the human race. Five years ago, he had been determined that his brother would join him or die in their showdown.

Now, he wasn't so sure. Annoyingly human as the two females were that Vash kept by his side, Knives had come to remember in the past years that he and Vash had once gotten along. Familiarity had returned, and he found himself actually missing the bond that their conflict had severed.

He wanted Vash to trust him again. Not human but neither a bulb-confined plant as his other siblings, Knives was alone except for Vash. His brother was the only one who could truly relate to a plant able to walk in the world.

But as much as he wanted his brother's trust, there was something to do first.

The escape had been simple – Vash had forgotten to lock him up. That was all. He finished their daily talk, during which he took off Knives' manacles. Put them back on with the usual admonishment to behave and left. But he had not locked them in place. It was not much longer after that when Knives heard the sounds of Vash and the two women leaving as a group.

Knives seized his chance. Took off the manacles, broke open the door that separated his room from the rest of the house, and made good his escape.

He was no fool. Vash had done this on purpose, giving him the chance to stay of his own volition. Sorry to disappoint, but he needed his freedom. At least for a little bit.

It had started when his dinner had been brought by Meryl Stryfe. That was a surprise; it was usually Vash, or the Thompson woman who insisted on calling him "Mr. Knives", who fed him. Stryfe pretty much kept her distance, wariness always in her eyes.

"I never took you as weak enough to surrender your pride," he had commented when he finished the meal.

"Kindness is not weakness," she had snapped before leaving. That triggered a long-dead memory.

A few days later, Vash told him amends had to be made. Reflecting on that, he had slowly come to know what needed to be done.

It was a week or so later when Vash left his restraints unlocked. And so here he was, out in the desert.

Hoped Vash would forgive him for leaving; but permission might not have been given if he had asked. He couldn't take that chance. Anyway, asking would feel too much like he was trying to prove something to Vash. This wasn't about proving anything to anyone. It was just something he had to do, though he couldn't articulate why.

Also hoped Vash would forgive him for taking food and a gun. It wasn't the magnificent piece of craftsmanship that had once been his, but it would do. He wasn't expecting trouble; however, better to have a gun and not need it, than need a gun and not have it.

The travel was hard on foot. But each night, he remembered Vash's talks with him over the past years. Knew down where it mattered that he was doing the right thing. John Smith might spit in his eye, but it was important to try to make things right with the man. Vash had taught him that.

"_Sorry doesn't fix it. You can't sorry something right, you have to _make _it right."_

It took several weeks – weeks of getting by on willpower more than anything else – but eventually he found the town called Glen Dun. He would start his search here.

_Smith broke the silence. "Where do you come from?"_

_Knives pointed. "From the desert."_

_Smith chuckled. "Some do."_

"_And you?"_

_Hesitancy filled Smith. It was never smart to say too much. But there was too much time and too much distance between him and the feud. This man couldn't possibly be someone hunting MacKenzies. _

"_A place called Glen Dun. It was home once. I hope someday it will be again. But it won't for a long time."_

It was dusk when Knives entered the town. Spitting out the stone in his mouth that had been keeping saliva moving, he patted dust from his worn trail clothes – an escape of opportunity does not afford one the time to appropriate a better outfit. Tipped up his hat and went into the general store. Walked up to the counter.

The middle-aged woman tending the register looked up. "What do you want?"

Knives was not accustomed to being polite. Once, he would have killed this woman as soon as look at her. Now, he swallowed his irritation. "Looking for a man named John Smith."

"Lot of people in the world by that name," she replied guardedly.

Knives described the young man he remembered. "He'd be pretty old by now."

Eyes widened; she swallowed hard. "You, ah – you any kin to him?"

Small head shake. "Just unfinished business."

Her hand started to move from the counter to behind it. Knives reflexively pinned it with his own. "What do you think you're doing?"

Fear now lit her eyes. "Mister, around here, 'unfinished business' means killing. You're better off just leaving now." Her voice was fairly well pleading.

His eyes narrowed. "Where is he?"

Her jaw trembled with hesitation. He looked at her harder and she broke. "In the saloon. Strung up from the ceiling. He came back not so long ago, thinking it was over. But these people, they never forget. Decades later, and the O'Connells are still bound and determined to kill every last MacKenzie! He said his name was Smith, yes, but they smelled the MazKenzie on him and six of them just strung him up and left him there!"

Tears rolled. "They don't even mind the stink. Say a dead MacKenzie smells wonderful. Please, mister, I've told you, now you just gotta leave!"

"Six did it?"

The woman nodded mutely.

"Good. I've got six bullets."

Exited the general store, leaving the woman shocked numb behind the counter. Scanned around. Nobody on the street. Two men lounging outside a loud place he judged to be the saloon.

Walked up to the two men. One of them held up a hand. "Full up, mister. Private party." Knives noted the twin revolvers he wore.

For five years, Knives had watched Vash. Watched how he got along with the two females. Watched his easy (but sometimes heated) relationship with Stryfe. Watched how Milly Thompson behaved. He had learned that not all humans were the enemy. Vash was always telling him how it was wrong to kill. Watching them, the message had sunk in.

Just not all the way.

Knives looked directly in the eyes of the one barring the way. "Give me your guns," he commanded.

The guy moved his head like he had a sudden crick in his neck. "My – my what?"

Stared harder. "Your guns. Give them to me."

Moving like molasses, the man nonetheless removed his guns and gave them to Knives. Making people do what he wanted used to go a lot quicker; he was out of practice. Not that it truly mattered; what was coming, he would do with his own hands.

Shoving the guns inside his own gun belt, Knives looked at the second one, who had a quizzical expression on his face. "Look at me!"

He obeyed, locking eyes with Knives.

"Were you two part of the group that killed John Smith?"

"Who?"

"The man hanging inside."

"That low-down son of a bitch MacKenzie –" the first one ejected.

"Silence!" Jaw clamped shut. Knives turned back to the second man. "Were you?"

"No." It came out dully, in a monotone.

If they weren't part of the hanging party, there was no need to waste his time on these two. Still to the second one: "Draw your gun. Shoot your companion in one of his knees, then yourself."

Two gunshots and twin howls of excruciating pain broke through the revelry as Knives stepped inside. The ruckus stopped as every head turned toward him.

His eyes locked on the corpse in the center of the saloon, dangling from the ceiling by a rough rope. The hair was gray, almost white; face was older, but take away the lines and it was the same one Knives remembered from so long ago. The stench of death filled his nostrils, staining the memory of the man who had fed someone he didn't have to. The man whose simple kindness Knives had returned with thanklessness.

"Six men," he declared, voice low but somehow filling the now-quiet room. "I want the six men who killed him."

In the crowd someone growled, "You another MacKenzie bastard?"

Knives shook his head slowly, watching everyone. "Just someone making amends."

Chairs scraped, somehow louder than the revelry had been before Knives came in. Six men stood up throughout the room. One of them, a powerfully built man with a mean red beard and meaner eyes, said, "This ain't no place for heroes."

The corner of Knives' mouth twitched upward. "But a good place to give a dead man some company."

He waited, hands loose, hovering over the three guns he now had. Don't rush it. Don't think about it. Just let it happen…

A hammer clicked back…there was the whispered creak of leather as someone drew…but Knives was already in motion…

For just under a minute, the night was filled with the sound of gunfire and people dying. Then, silence returned.

Guns still smoking, Knives looked at the hanging corpse. He had made the only amends he could to a dead man. Anything else would not make a difference. This body was no longer John Smith. It was just a collection of dead cells that time would eventually reduce back down to atoms. A corpse didn't care what happened to it.

Still…

"Cut him down."

Nobody moved. Those not dead or wounded were too shocked from the suddenness of the violence and the suddenness of its end.

"_I said cut him down!"_

Slowly, tremblingly, a saloon girl summoned the courage to stand and walk to Smith's corpse. Drawing a concealed knife, not daring to look at Knives nor at what she was doing, she moved the knife until she felt contact and sawed back and forth. The body hit the ground with a thud and a slight sickening hint of squish.

Knives looked hard around the room, scanning wounded and unharmed alike. "You let a man be killed because of his name. Now you're going to bury him, and that will be the last of it. Your war, however it started, ends now. Or I promise, I'll be back to give you a _real_ war, and you'll pray to be taken by Hell just to be away from me!"

Holstered his gun, throwing the other two outside as he left. He would be back. Whether Vash agreed to it or not, he would be coming back to make sure. He would heed his brother's words and make it right.

Several hours later, he was out in the desert again. The starlight was bright enough to travel by, with the cool night air much preferable to the brutal daytime heat. The killings didn't bother him the way Vash was bothered. Didn't please him the way they once had, either. Maybe _his_ war truly was over, too.

Knives sighed and stopped walking.

_Come on if you're coming_. He let the thought flow outward.

It didn't take long for his brother to come up on him.

"You realize this is the way back home," Vash said.

"Your home," Knives chided. "Not yet mine. Though I admit, it might someday be." He resumed walking, Vash keeping pace alongside. "I am sorry I left as I did, but I had to do this one thing. That's why you're here, isn't it? To bring me back?"

Vash shrugged. "Just thought I'd keep an eye on you. I passed through the town after you. You killed people back there." Hard voice, but open to hearing why.

Knives nodded slowly. "I knew it was something you wouldn't like. No excuses. Six men needed killing, and six men got it. For what it's worth, everyone else who drew on me, I shot to wound."

Vash gave the hint of a smile. "Compared to aiming for genocide, I'll call that progress. Did that have anything to do with the man I saw being buried?"

"Everything."

"You've never given a damn about humans before. Why this one?"

_As Smith slept, Knives came to consciousness. Moving silently, careful not to disturb Smith, he rose. Inched his way slowly away, watching for any sign of disturbance from the sleeping man. Moved slowly, carefully, inch by inch, until he was by Smith's rifle. _

_Smith's eyes opened. He went for his gun, but Knives was quicker, snatching the rifle and slamming the butt into Smith's head. The man slumped back against the ground, drawn gun slipping from his hand._

_Knives hurriedly took the saddle and bags, making sure they had the ammunition for the rifle. Whatever food was in the saddlebags was now his, as was anything else in there and the rifle. Everything else Smith had would remain with him. He was in a hurry to be away from the man who had shared his food._

_Quickly saddled the thomas, untethered it and rode out. He would not feel sorry for this. Smith was nothing but a human, and should consider himself lucky Knives was letting him live._

"I acted wrongly toward him. I needed to make amends, as you said. Clearly, I was too late, and so I made amends the only way I could."

Vash grunted. "Help me understand, brother. Why was it so important to make things right with this one man?"

Because he shared when he didn't have to. Because a simple hospitality was betrayed. Because Knives was beginning to change into someone better than he had been.

More than a minute passed as they walked back home in silence. Vash thought perhaps there would be no response, then Knives spoke.

"He was kind to me."


End file.
